


I Am My Beloved’s

by extraneous_accessories



Category: Herodotus-Histories
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 21:59:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17947895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extraneous_accessories/pseuds/extraneous_accessories
Summary: “Now the most shameful of the customs of the Babylonians is as follows: Every woman of the country must sit down in the precincts of Aphrodite once in her life and have commerce with a stranger- [...] in the sacred enclosure of Aphrodite sit great numbers of women with a wreath of cord about their heads; some come and others go; and there are passages in straight lines going between the women in every direction, through which the strangers pass by and make their choice. Here when a woman takes her seat she does not depart again to her house until one of the strangers has thrown a silver coin into her lap and has had commerce with her outside the temple, and after throwing it he must say these words only: "I demand thee in the name of the goddess Mylitta": now Mylitta is the name given by the Assyrians to Aphrodite: and the silver coin may be of any value; whatever it is she will not refuse it, for that is not lawful for her, seeing that this coin is made sacred by the act: and she follows the man who has first thrown and does not reject any: and after that she departs to her house, having acquitted herself of her duty to the goddess”-Herodotus-Histories





	I Am My Beloved’s

_”As a lily among the brambles, so is my love among the young women”_

_“I came to my garden, my sister, my bride,  
I gathered my myrrh with my spice,  
I ate my honeycomb with my honey,  
I drank my wine with my milk”_

_-Song of Solomon_

Nitocris sits in the garden of the temple of Mylitta. She, named for the wisest of queens, sits waiting in the shade of the spreading palms. Its leaves cool the heat of the sun on her eyes and the ring of silver on stones fills her ears from dawn till dusk. Each day, she sits. She waits. 

Men pass. Strangers, clad in their linen and wool, each with silver in his pockets and lust in his heart. One will find her. Perhaps it will not be today. Perhaps not tomorrow. Yet the day must come before she may take up her skirts and return to the home of her mothers. 

“I demand you in the name of Mylitta,” he will say, and her souls temples at the very thought of such words. She is bound by the law, she must accept the first demand made and follow the stranger to his bed, and...

and...

Her eyes close tightly against the thought. If the passing strangers cannot be seen, perhaps they will vanish into the midday heat, leaving her alone in the fresh, cool shade of the garden. 

The garden. Sitting in the temple of the goddess, her mind flees her body to the memory of another garden, cool not with shade, but with moonlight.

Ningal had laid out her reeds for Nanna, and the moon god’s glory fell down upon the garden, and upon the limbs of Ninva, fallen city, first in beauty, most precious in love. As the raven’s wing was her hair, as burnished copper her skin, and the taste, oh the taste of her lips was the sweetest of wine. 

The gate of the garden had stood wide, and in its folds had Nitocris known the purest joy. 

She had wept to keep the tenets of the law, begged the goddess to let her be taken to the next life instead, yet here she sits. Waiting. 

A rustle of linen passes by her shuttered gaze. The tap of sandals on the stone of the walk. Her belly is as the leaping of a gazelle, as the terrible flight of the hawk at midday. She will not open her eyes, will not lay her gaze upon the lips which utter her curse, nor the silver which falls in her lap. 

“I demand you, in the name of Mylitta” 

Hands pluck her from her seat. She is conveyed, stepping through the garden as in a dream. Unseeing. Unfeeling. The streets of Babylon pass her by. The sun is harsh upon her skin. She beseeches the gods to strike her where she stands, and hopes, hopes that the night will pass by with the stealth of the leopard and the swiftness of the young deer. 

Robes encircle her. Perfume and oil anoint her hair, gold sits upon her neck. A stranger has come for her, and adorned her as a queen. If it would not bring her to shame, she would weep. Bitter tears would she weep, yet the gates of the rivers are closed, the river beds dry. Drought lies upon her soul as she lies upon the couch of the stranger. 

Myrrh and frankincense burn. A step soft as wind in the reeds enters the bedchamber of the stranger. He is coming. She will not look. Can not. 

“Nitocris.”

It is no man’s voice that murmurs above her. Yet still a stranger. 

Unlidded, her eyes gaze upon skin as soft as milk, as sweet as honey, eyes bright as stars. 

“I am called Ishtar,” speak lips the colour of wet clay, “long have I waited for your coming. Do not be afraid.”

She sees. She is as the lion with the fierceness of her joy. She is not afraid.

The gates of the garden are open. Limbs twine as vines in the vineyards. The light of Ningal and Nanna falls into the chamber and about the face of Ishtar. Blessed. Beauteous. Beloved.

Nitocris just dares to touch, to lay her arms around her lover’s waist. Sweet as fresh honey, soft as freshest milk, she breathes out her blessing. 

“I demand you in the name of Mylitta.”


End file.
